A giant was loose in the land.  He was a menace to everyone.  Morning and evening he stepped forth and practiced his dark arts of intimidation.  The agony of the folks he afflicted was real.  In the giant's shadow, people no longer lived the abundant life. They felt helpless and retreated into angry tribes.  They built fortresses to protect themselves from the giant—things we now call systems.   

Each system had its own rules, weapons, armor, and leaders.  There was the occasional skirmish with the giant’s minions.  But many of the systems fell to fighting each other rather than the giant, and the troubling story continued unchanged.  The giant reigned, day and night.  

Occasionally, someone would wonder aloud which was worse: the giant--or the system that had been established to fight the giant. But those sentiments were quickly quashed.  

One day, a lad appeared and desired to slay the giant—all by himself.  Life had not yet beat the self-confidence out of him.  Even though he’d never fought a giant before, he had dealt with his disgusting older brothers, the onery sheep in the flocks he tended every day, and the occasional wolf that had to be outsmarted.  The system had not hitherto reigned in the lad’s imagination.  It had not yet convinced him to hide in the fortress and abide by its conventional rules.  It had not yet domesticated his ambition.  

But here he was, a boy with no armor—and no knowledge of how to work within the system.  When it became clear to the authorities that he was going to take on the giant anyway, they thrust the king’s armor onto his nimble body—and tried to fill his quick mind with their procedures.  But the lad couldn’t think or move when burdened by such contrivances.  He stripped them all off, fought the giant in his own way, and was victorious.

The people praised the young man and organized parades in his honor. And after several years, they even crowned him to be their new king, make him the head of the fortress, set him up as the figurehead of their system.  

But once inside the system, our hero found that there was little space for his imagination.  He no longer fought giants. Instead, he spent all his time combatting enemies within the system.  His caged imagination developed a cruel streak—even though he could still write beautiful poetry, occasionally.  He wore his crown, donned his royal robes, and took on the mantle of responsibility—for the fortress.  He had the appearance of a king.  I could tell more of this story, but it's too sad.

***

As a child, I wanted to slay giants.  When I became a teenager, I learned some of their names: poverty, bigotry, and war.  I would learn more names as years passed:  hopelessness, disease, death, self-righteousness, nationalism, violence, mental illness, hate….  So many giants!  So much to do in the life ahead.

And so it was, at the age of 18, I presented myself to the church, wanting to be sent forth—to thrash giants.  Consequently, during my freshman year in college, the Southern Illinois Conference of the United Methodist Church pulled me into their system and sent me to my first congregation, introducing me as their new pastor.  Everyone started calling me “Reverend,” and they gave me a paycheck.  When I led worship, they all stood up whenever I said, “let us stand.”  And after each hymn, they kept their eyes on me—waiting for me to say, “you may be seated.”  Such power.  

I worked my way through college and seminary—serving as pastor in five different churches during those years, the entire time enshrouding myself in the perks and powers the system afforded. After my formal education, I went on to be pastor of seven other congregations--for a total of fifty years in that task.

But early on, once I got inside the system, I realized that something inside of me was never comfortable.  The institution was not designed to allow pastors freedom of imagination, passion, or curiosity. Yet, these all seemed essential to me if I wanted to fight giants--or be a healer for those injured by giants. The institution was no place for pastors who had doubts and wanted to explore the mysteries of God more deeply, more freely.  

If you want to be a successful pastor, you need to play the game, abide by the rules, stick to your role, act the part—even if it isn’t authentic.  Once you are a pastor, you exchange your imagination for an image—a glittering image—defined by the needs of the system.  Nimble humor and curiosity are a threat.  Authenticity in a pastor destabilizes the system. Folks get queasy if the pastor leaks even a little confession on a touchy subject. 

By 1990, like that grown-up lad long ago, I was fully into my role as “pastor.”  I wasn’t fighting many actual giants, but rather found myself exhausted fighting skirmishes in my congregations or conference. The trappings of ministry had become second nature to me: the clergy personality, the robes, the rhetoric, the titles, the demeanor, the anxiety to perform, the fear of losing control, the obsession with others’ expectations.

It was enough to drive me crazy.  Thus, the origins of this book, Teaching the Preacher to Curse.  I decided to start writing letters to my congregation.  Each Sunday morning, I would greet people at the door with that week’s copy of a freshly written letter.  And so began the “Sunday Letters,” now called my “Sunday Post.”  

For a quarter of a century, I got up at 5:30 each Sunday morning to write my letter.  It was the first thing I did those days.  Before I slipped on my Sunday suit, before I put on my “preacher personality,” before I strapped on my clerical authority, before I started patching the holes in the sermon I would preach later that morning—before I put on any of that pastoral armor and took up any of those professional duties—I sat down to write a letter to my church family that was just me--without all the institutional trappings, without the safety of my professionalism.  In those letters, I was just “Mike.”

I wrote of things that made me laugh or cringe.  I shared what I felt about what I had witnessed in the past week.  I gave my curiosity freedom to roam—and shared what I had discovered.  I played with ideas and words—not giving in to fearing what my readers might think.  

Of course, there are boundaries—I would not disrespect myself or others.  There is a line between authenticity and exposure.  Confidences are sacred, including confidential matters from my own life.  But within those boundaries, I found more freedom in those Sunday letters than I had ever had in my ministry.  

To my surprise, the Sunday Letters took on a life of their own.  Many people in my congregations found them to be the most meaningful ministry I had to offer—even more than the conventional methods of teaching, preaching, or counseling.

When people started getting home computers and email, I created an list and sent the Sunday Letters out to even more people.  Folks were reading them on the church website, folks I didn’t even know.  People shared them with friends, and my mailing list grew.

I changed the format a little, trying to center each letter on a single topic.  I began calling it my Sunday Post.  The more I saw the posts as an essential part of my ministry, the more care I took in crafting each one.  I began to work on them before Sunday morning.  

When I retired from leading congregations, in 2020, 2021, and 2022--I continued to write the posts and send them out to a long list of friends, former parishioners, and even people I’ve never met.

The chapters of this book are drawn from thirty years of Sunday letters and posts--extensively rewritten and edited for book form.

I have been blessed by many people, places, and experiences.  This book is my ministry now--a means to help me pass along the blessings.  I have discovered humor—and in these chapters I pass it on to you.  I have found healing and comfort in my own life—and in what follows I hope to give you stories and insights that might bring you some healing. People have shown me grace—I hope I've passed it on to you in the spirit of these writings.  

Thank you for picking up this book.  I’m excited to share it with you.  And if you ever get around to it, drop me a line and share a piece of your own heart and mind in return. This is a holy thing--this unique relationship between author and reader. Let us begin!

J. Michael Smith

Urbana, Illinois

December 2023